


He met me, Stranger, upon life's rough way

by elliot_cant_write



Category: If We Were Villains - M.L. Rio
Genre: M/M, copious allusions to william godwin and friends, i also cant believe i predicted the rise of the cottagecore aesthetic two years ago, i cant believe i just wrote this, it's depressing but in a positive way? there's a happy ending, that's what I'm getting at, you dont need to read to strengthen one's hand before this, your typical james is not dead fic but he's in london running a bookstore and living in a tiny house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:53:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25625470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliot_cant_write/pseuds/elliot_cant_write
Summary: James lives in a tiny house with a cat named Eleanor and he runs a bookstore in London and everyday he does the exact same thing so that his past can't catch up with him.To Strengthen One's Hand but from James's point of view
Relationships: James Farrow/Oliver Marks
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	He met me, Stranger, upon life's rough way

James Farrow lived a boring but happy life. 

Every day he woke up when his cat jumped on his chest, meowing to be fed. He’d gently push Eleanor off of him and get up from wherever he had fallen asleep the night before. Most of the time, now, it was his bed, but sometimes it was still the couch with piles of books spread out around him because he couldn’t find it within himself to sleep but also couldn’t find it within himself to choose something else.

He’d go to feed Eleanor, and then he’d go to get dressed, and when he’d look in the mirror to see if it was worth trying to deal with his overgrown hair, he’d remind himself that he was happy, and he was going to go to work, and he wasn’t going to cry because he’d been on a no-crying streak of two days now and he really wanted to keep it. 

Eleanor would interrupt him by meowing at the door to go out, because she was more like a dog than a cat sometimes, but that was okay because when he saw her at the shelter she reminded him of Dellechers and she reminded him of his friends and she reminded him of...

No crying.

So he would get dressed, and he would let Eleanor out, and then he would put on his shoes and get his jacket off of the hook right inside the door, with the keys to his new-but-still-shitty car in its pocket. He’d pull out of his driveway and onto the dirt road as Eleanor prowled around for mice, a barn cat without a barn. He’d make the long drive into the city for work as an audiobook played over the new-but-still-shitty speakers. He didn’t have to listen much, as it was a book he’d already read - a biography of William Godwin - but he liked the background noise. James read a lot these days. He missed having someone to talk about it with, though.

Eventually, he’d arrive at work, a tiny and slightly dusty used bookstore that was jammed between an overly-crowded cafe and a more often than not empty antique store. The Books of Kings. He’d bought it the year before when the thought of having to keep working at a theatre made him sort of want to die.

He’d unlock the door, flip the sign to open, and settle behind the checkout counter with a book - Euripedes. Not Shakespeare, but closer than he could manage sometimes.

Every morning, at the same time he opened the shop, Filippa texted him telling him to have a nice day.

Today, she also said to remember that they all loved him.

James stared at his phone for a bit too long, thrown off by the unexpected stray from his usual routine, before shutting it off and putting it away.

He was happy. He liked it here.

•

The bookstore was never terribly crowded, but this particular day was slower than usual, leaving James plenty of time to work his way through _Trojan Women_ and to worry about Filippa’s text. He tried to keep that part to the back of his mind, although he really couldn’t help it. They had such a specific schedule (Filippa texts good morning, James texts goodnight, Colin and Alexander call the first Monday of each month because they all know James won’t talk to anyone else) that Filippa’s extra text was setting him on edge. Not enough for him to text her back to ask, but still.

At about half past 10, a few teenagers wandered in, and he directed them to the YA section as they laughed and poked at one another. For five minutes, the bookstore was happy and lively. Then they left, and everything went back to normal.

It wasn’t that Filippa never texted him something extra. Once or twice she sent him a picture of a cute dog she saw. One time she and Meredith got wasted in the middle of the day and she sent him a picture of the two of them making ridiculous faces at the camera. Once she told him to close the shop down for the day because Wr...someone was meant to be in the city and neither of them wanted her to know.

James closed his eyes. He could hear the soft sounds of traffic and talking outside. He could still smell the smoke from the cigarette that the guy he bought the store from had kept constantly tucked into the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t going to cry today.

At 11:15, he put aside his book, just like every day, and went to the backroom to grab an apple and sandwich. On the first day of every week, he made enough sandwiches and got enough apples to get him through to the following Monday, all of which he kept in a tiny fridge tucked behind a bookshelf. He used to close the shop for lunch, but now he didn’t bother. It was rare that anyone came in then anyway.

So he’d eat lunch at the counter, being extremely careful not to get breadcrumbs anywhere while simultaneously listening for the ding of the door opening. Luckily, it wasn’t until almost noon that the next person came in. 

James glanced up from his book - he was on _Medea_ now - as the door fell shut behind someone - tall, curly dark hair, the set of his shoulder’s said youngish - who wandered somewhat directionless towards the back of the store. Probably a tourist, probably wouldn’t need him, but James still kept half of his attention directed at the sounds of his creaking footsteps as he poked around the bookshelves.

Which, of course, made it his own fault when he recognized him.

•

Seeing Oliver Marks was sort of like how James imagined being shot felt. Or maybe being hit by a truck, and then another, and then another. He would have said that it reminded him of drowning, both the first time and the second time, but he had conditioned himself to stop any time he thought of that, and the panic running so hard through his veins wasn’t enough to break years of discipline.

This didn’t have to mean anything, he reasoned to himself. If Oliver didn’t buy anything, he never would have to come up to the desk, and he never would have to see James. This could be fine. Really.

He thought of Filippa’s text. James didn’t really believe in coincidences. 

James very intentionally redirected his attention to his book, although he couldn’t focus enough to actually internalize any of the text. Maybe Oliver wouldn’t recognize him. James knew he looked different, and hopefully he was different enough that he could fool him for long enough to ring up his purchase and get him out. He turned a page. Oliver wouldn’t have been expecting to see him, which would help. Maybe if he thought James resembled his long dead friend, he’d think it was just a coincidence. It really had been so long, maybe Oliver didn’t think about him anymore. Unless Filippa told him. He turned a page. Maybe he could fake an accent. That would throw him off. No, that’s ridiculous. 

Then, “Hey.” His voice scared James so badly that he accidentally slammed his book down too hard on the counter, the crack of the spine hitting the wood making him jump even worse. “Do you take cards, or cash only?”

James forced himself to breathe. If he wasn’t saying anything, he probably didn’t recognize him. At least not yet. “Cash only. Uh, you can pay in US dollars though, if it’s more convenient. It’s nine dollars and twenty-five cents, by the way. Or seven pounds.”

The guy (Oliver, just fucking call him Oliver) pulled some money out of his wallet. “Okay, awesome. I’m almost out of pounds anyway, so thanks.”

Maybe James was going to suffocate. Maybe he was going to die here anyway and the universe was just playing a cruel joke on him in his final moments. “No problem.” He whispered. He wasn’t going to cry. 

He saw the horror in Oliver’s eyes the second he realised who he was talking to. 

James forced himself not to lurch back from the counter, even as the edges of his vision darkened and he was legitimately afraid he was going to pass out. He could feel his entire chest caving in on himself, every bit of James Farrow curling up inward into a tiny ball, even as his body remained upright and open. Left vulnerable. He wanted to reach up and touch his arms, looking for bruises that he knew weren’t there, but he forced himself to stand up straight and try not to look like he was losing every bit of sanity he had built up for years as Oliver’s lips formed the shape of his name. 

“James…”

He could hardly hear it over the roaring in his ears, but still, that was what finally broke him. Oliver’s voice. His entire body jolted like he was suddenly being forced back to life. “Oliver. I’m so-” He choked on the words, his brain scrambling to find a way to buy himself a few minutes, to _pull himself together_. He glanced at the door. “One second, okay? Give me that and then we can talk.”

Oliver didn’t protest, and James couldn’t tell if he was imagining the impatient look in his eyes. But he quickly scrambled off to lock the door, practically gasping for air the second he was out of his sight. His heart was racing so bad that he was sure Oliver could hear it even from where he stood across the shop. He knew he only had a few seconds and he forced himself to feel like a real person again before returning to where Oliver waited. “I wanted to close the shop.” He explained. “Figured it would be best if we didn’t have customers wandering in.” They both clearly knew that was a lie, but Oliver didn’t say anything to argue. Instead, he just sort of stared at him.

“James. What the actual fuck?”

James pulled at the collar of his shirt, trying to stop it from feeling like it was suffocating him just as much as he was trying to calm himself down. “I know this is a lot, and you’re probably angry, and-”

But before he could finish, Oliver cut him off. “No, you’re not going to diplomat your way out of this; you’re supposed to be dead, but you’re not, and I should be angry, but mostly I just want to hug you. And maybe cry. But also I’m so pissed at you.”

James was pretty sure he was actually about to pass out now. He sort of laughed, breathless and shaky, but hopefully convincing enough. “To be fair, I think you’re handling this better than I am.”

“Just.” Oliver sighed. “Come here.”

“What?”

“I want to hug you, asshole. Come here.”

James hesitantly took a step forward, but Oliver rolled his eyes and pulled him the rest of the way into a hug.

If seeing Oliver was like getting hit by three consecutive trucks, this was like getting crushed under a pile of them. It was _real_ and painful and heavy and James couldn’t think of the last time he had been held by another person and it was Oliver, it was _Oliver_. James was pretty sure he was shaking.

Eventually, Oliver pulled away. “You can calm down a bit.” He said. “I...have a lot of feelings right now but I don’t want to make any irrational choices before I know what’s going on.”

“That’s responsible.” James crossed his arms over his chest even though he knew it made him look defensive. He needed to get out of here. “Can we talk somewhere else?”

Oliver raised his eyebrows. “What? Are you going to kill me too?”

It hurt, and he knew Oliver had meant it to. “Please.”

But he could tell he was going to relent. “Where?”

Still, relief immediately flooded his entire body. “I live right outside of the city.” James said. “I don’t know where you’re staying, but…”

“Your place is fine.” Oliver said quickly. “Hope you have a car.” 

•

James stopped the audiobook before the narrator could say a word and switched it to a CD, some indie instrumental one that he had swiped from the free box at the bookstore. An audiobook seemed too close to opening up to the type of discussions they would have had back..before. 

“It’s a little bit of a drive, but it shouldn’t be so bad. Traffic out of the city at least should be calmer since it is fairly early.” He said, trying to look at Oliver without seeming obvious as his hands gripped so hard on the steering wheel that his knuckles turned white and you could see the bone jutting out. 

Oliver didn’t say anything, just looked out the window. He looked like he was thinking, hard.

James forced himself to look forward. Don’t cry, please don’t cry. 

Had he known already? Had Filippa told him? Was he mad? He should have been. He deserved to be. James had been torturing himself for years for what he did, to Richard, to Oliver, to all of them, but he knew it would never be enough. He could repent all he wanted but it wouldn’t make any difference.

They were silent for the entire drive - with the exception of Oliver questioning why he lived so far away from the city - until James pulled onto the familiar dirt road, the same one he had left that morning expecting another day indistinguishable from the last. 

When they finally got to the house, Oliver spoke again. “You left San Francisco just to live in a tiny house anyway?”

James picked at the steering wheel. “The idea of a big space made me anxious.” Easier to feel like you’re drowning in a big house.

“I can’t believe that you’re literally William Godwin.”

James accidentally braked harder than he meant to. They both jolted forward, the tug of the seatbelt making James’s chest hurt even more than it already did. “What?”

Oliver sort of smirked as James hurriedly put the car into park. “You’re presumed to be dead. I, in this scenario being Percy Shelley, have come to London for an unrelated purpose and accidentally found out that you are alive, here, and running an odd bookstore.”

James laughed, breathlessly. He glanced at the CD case of his audiobook. James didn’t believe in coincidences. 

•

First, James introduced Oliver to Eleanor. It seemed like the polite thing to do, for all of them. 

“Hi, Ms Eleanor,” Oliver leaned down to pet her. “What a lovely lady you are.” Eleanor, pleased by the compliment and by being addressed formally, rubbed against his leg. She’d always been one for pretension. 

James hovered. “I think she likes you. She tried to drive out the plumber when he was here last week.”

“You have indoor plumbing?” Oliver asked. 

He nodded, feeling a lot more normal. More grounded. “Indoor plumbing, heat, running water. This isn’t the 1700s, Oliver.”

Oliver looked around, and James tried not to worry too much what he thought about the house. “Which has more books, your shop or this place?”

“The shop.” He answered, leaning down himself to pet Eleanor. “I keep most of my best ones here though. Mostly because I don’t want people like you coming in and touching them and ruining the covers.”

Oliver made a face like he was offended, but James knew he didn’t mean it. Ten years, he could still read him. “That hurts. That really hurts.”

James grinned. “Want to see my fifteen copies of Frankenstein?”

“Not really. I think we need to talk.”

And just like that, all the warmth was sucked out of the room. He felt his smile slip. “Yes, of course. Um, do you want to sit down?”

When Oliver nodded, James scrambled to clear off all the papers he had left on his couch. Sonnets, an article Wren had written on costuming that Filippa had emailed him, some records from the shop. He was pretty sure he was rambling out loud, but he had no idea what about. He just needed to fill the silence. Once he had gotten the papers into somewhat of a pile, they sat down, James making sure he was as far apart from Oliver as he could possibly get.

They sat in silence for a few seconds, until James, assuming Oliver was waiting for him, spoke. “Do you, uh, want to start? I feel as if you should be in charge here.”

Oliver nodded. He looked guilty, for reasons that James couldn’t possibly fathom. “Why?” 

He knew it was coming, but that didn’t make it easier. There was so much, just, _noise_ swirling around in his head that he could hardly think. He clenched his teeth, trying to tune it out as much he could to form a coherent answer. “I couldn’t deal with it. I’d see you, and then every time it hurt more and I hated myself more and wanted to be someone, anyone else. I-I-I I felt like I was losing my fucking mind. You’re so good, and-” He buried his face in his hands, wanting to pull out his hair and scream and just make it all stop. “ _Know that it was Banquo, in the times past, which held you so under fortune, which you thought had been our innocent self_.”

Oliver looked stricken. “God, James. You’re not fucking Macbeth.”

He laughed, shaky and miserable. “No, I suppose not. Macbeth isn’t the one who jumped from a tower.”

“You’re not Macbeth or anyone else, and I’m not Banquo, okay? We’re real people, and we’re going to have this conversation as real people. Or I’m leaving.”

Oliver sounded angry for the first time and although he knew he deserved it, James pulled himself together. “Right. Point is, I needed to escape. We all knew what happened to you was my fault. I couldn’t stand the way Meredith looked at me like she was disgusted, or the way Alexander looked at me like he was disappointed, or how sad Filippa was, or Wren. I couldn’t keep looking at Wren. She didn’t know it was me, so she’d smile at me and then I’d brush her off like an ass and I couldn’t tell her why. I needed to get away from myself and try to find a way not to be such a fucking failure. You can understand that, right?” He tried not to look at Oliver like he was begging him to understand him, even though he was. He needed someone to tell him that he had done the right thing, that he wasn’t so fucking stupid that he would ruin everything for no reason. 

Oliver looked like he was thinking. “It’s not a matter of whether or not I understand, because trust me, I do. But I thought you were dead, James. I got out, and you weren’t there like you were supposed to be, and Filippa was left to have to tell me you were gone. Speaking of which,” He abruptly switched tracks. “Did everyone else know? Was I the only one kept in the dark?”

“Filippa knew,” James whispered, trying not to sink into himself even more. “She helped me out initially. Then we didn’t talk for a few years. She’s been emailing me off and on lately though. We text.” He shrugged. “I guess that I should have known she was planning something. She never liked the idea of me totally locking myself away in a foreign country. Talked me into telling Alexander and Colin, too. Colin and I are friends on FaceBook and sometimes he sends me pictures of their cat. They call, sometimes. Meredith and Wren, though, they don’t know anything.” He forced himself to look at Oliver, even though the pain on his face killed him. “I wanted you to know. Filippa called me the day you got out, and I’ve wanted to tell you ever since. But I was afraid you’d hated me. Afraid you hate me.”

“Yes, like I hated you when you murdered someone,” Oliver said sarcastically, and James winced. Bad. Oliver must have seen, because his tone softened the next time he spoke. “Look, James, I just wanted you back. I forgave you for everything the second I saw you in the bookstore. I always wanted all of us to end up near one another after Dellecher, and I guess I still do. At least, I know I don’t want to lose you again.”

“Is that enough though? You can hardly build anything upon just not wanting to lose someone.”

Oliver huffed, starting to sound exasperated “Oh, fuck that. The whole point of building relationships with people is to be around them, right? Do we still have things we need to work out? Absolutely, but I don’t want to go back to New York and go see Filippa and pretend we don’t both know you’re alive. I don’t want to go see a movie I know you’d hate and not be able to call you to complain about it. I lost arguably the person I care the most about in the world. I don’t care as much about how I get that back, as long as I do.”

This was what finally broke James. “I swore I wasn’t going to cry today, but I guess that’s gone out the window.” He swiped at his eyes and tried to laugh a little, but it just came out sharp and cut off too abruptly to be convincing. “You’re much too good for me. I, um, I guess I don’t want to lose you again either.”

He was too distracted to notice Oliver reaching for his hand until he had already taken it. “Then don’t.”

•

James Farrow lived a somewhat unusual life, which was something that he sort of needed to learn to accept. Maybe it wasn’t boring, and maybe he wasn’t as happy as he tried to tell himself he was. He had let himself become so obsessed with his routine, so obsessed with doing the exact same thing every single day so that he could pretend that he didn’t really exist and so that he didn’t have to think about any of the things he had worked so hard to make himself forget. 

And maybe he didn’t want that anymore.

“You have my number, right?” James asked for probably the tenth time, burrowed as far as he could in his jacket as freezing wind swirled around outside the airport. “Store and home?”

Oliver held up his phone, not saying anything about how many times he had checked. They were both terrified of losing contact again. “Both are here. I’ll call you once I land. We can talk more about how to stay in touch then.”

James nodded, not wanting to look away from Oliver’s face for a second, not wanting to miss a thing. Still, they were on a schedule. He made himself check his watch. “We’re getting close to your flight. You should probably get going. Customs and all.”

“Yeah.” Oliver made no effort to move. “You know I’m going to have to come back to visit you eventually, right?” 

James's heart was melting, and it was the first time he could think of in forever that he felt something so, so _warm_. “You better.” He gave him a watery smile. “Because otherwise I’m going to be showing up in New York to track you down.”

“Hey, I thought you said that you weren’t going to cry.” Oliver teased, reaching up to press his hand against the side of James’s face. They stood there for a few seconds, letting the sounds of the airport and the cold London air wash over them, until Oliver smiled softly and let go. He leaned down to pick his bag up and slung it over his shoulder, before going over and pulling James into a hug. “I’ll talk to you in a few hours, okay?”

James hugged Oliver tighter for a few seconds, silently reminding himself not to cry, but in a good way this time. “I hope you’re looking forward to a complete list of every book I’ve read in the last year, complete with discussion points and my personal and professional opinions.” He whispered, burying his face in Oliver’s neck, secretly thankful for the few extra inches Oliver had on him. 

“I can’t wait.” Oliver seemed perfectly content to stand there forever, but James eventually forced himself to let go. Then Oliver went to check his bag, and right before he disappeared, he turned around to wave one last time. And James beamed back, happier than he had been in as long as he could remember. 

James didn’t believe in coincidences. He thought this may have been what was supposed to happen.

**Author's Note:**

> I legitimatly cannot believe that I wrote this, but today I reread iwwv for the first time in ages and decided to dig out the document i had lovingly titled "what if i rewrote the cured iwwv" and wrote exactly two lines in last November. I think I like this though.  
> Some notes:  
> 1\. to everyone who commented on the last chapter of to strengthen[...] and didn't comment on the complete breakdown I had in the notes, thanks. I reread that today for this and wow.   
> 2\. So the title is a (slightly edited) quote from Epipsychidion by Percy Shelley! "To strengthen one's hand" was a Godwin quote and I compared James to Godwin, so for this one I chose a Shelley quote since I had compared Oliver to him.   
> 3\. i reread the raven cycle earlier this week and i feel like it highkey shows in this lmao  
> 4\. almost all the dialogue is identical to the dialogue from the other version. I think I changed like three parts, two for flow and one just bc i couldn't figure out what on earth I was going on about.  
> 5\. I think all the godwin stuff is adequetly explained in text but if anyone cares that much i believe i explained it all in the notes on the other version  
> 6\. irrelivant but i cannot believe that still nobody has written wren/filippa content!! i may have to return just to do that bc i miss them.  
> 7\. thank you sm for reading! i legitimatly haven't written anything for public consumption since January and i hope it doesn't show, but i had a lot of fun writing this. my tumblr is now @lesbianelizanethfrankenstein if anyone wants to be friends! hope you're all doing well!


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